Tiny House in the Trees

by Celia Bonaduce

  She knew she sounded like a child, but she didn’t care. How many people start their new jobs flying through the air?

  “That does sound fun,” Bale said. “But don’t lose focus.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that,” Molly demurred. “It was just coffee.”

  “I meant, don’t lose focus on your thesis.”

  Molly could feel her ears turning red with embarrassment. Just because she was fantasizing where that helicopter ride might lead, there was no reason why Bale would be.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Molly said hurriedly and quickly jabbed at her phone to disconnect.

  She had walked for about a half hour, studying the different kinds of trees, when she realized she’d lost track of exactly where she was. She looked up to find herself among much older, wilder-looking specimens. Their branches were unruly and there were different kinds of trees bunched together—not only evergreens, but walnut and magnolias as well. She was in a forest! She realized she might not even be on Quinn’s property anymore, and, even if she were, he wouldn’t be interested in planting seedlings under the thick shade of these ancient, inhospitable-looking trees whose bark seemed to announce there was no room for interlopers.

  Molly sat down under the canopy of a large evergreen and studied the forest. Kentucky was known for its softly rolling hills and lush, sprawling horse farms, but it wouldn’t take long for the land to return to a thicket of dense trees given half the chance. She stood up, ready to return to a more plausible part of the farm, when she noticed a few pieces of wood hammered into the trunk of the large tree she’d been sitting under. She looked up—it was a handmade ladder, climbing all the way into the needles.

  She could see a platform high up in the branches.

  Was this a tree house?

  Dizzy with anticipation, she tested the first few rungs. They seemed solid enough. She gauged the platform to be about thirty feet in the air—just the height she’d chosen for her model. She knew she shouldn’t climb up a makeshift ladder without anyone knowing where she was, but she couldn’t resist. She looked at her cell phone. She didn’t have any reception. If she were to get stuck in the tree—or worse, fall on some rotten timber—nobody would know.

  She grabbed onto the ladder and took a step.

  Her right hand, with the words “Open,” “Discover,” and “Willing” written on it, was on the rung above her, daring her upward.

  She took another step.

  And another.

  Molly was halfway up the tree when one of the steps gave way beneath her. She managed to catch herself, but closed her eyes, hugging the tree as she listened to the step smashing against the trunk of the tree, then crashing to the ground. When everything was still, Molly steadied her nerves and took another step upward. She tried to think of something to take her mind off the climb.

  She remembered Bale saying that everything could be a lesson. If she didn’t die investigating this tree, she knew she’d spend extra time on her own version, creating a non-scary ascent. She started thinking about various ways to launch oneself into a tree, then she hit her head on something—and realized she was at the top.

  She looked up. She could see the bottom of the platform and the top of the tree through a square opening. She grabbed onto the sides and pulled herself through, using all the Pilates upper body strength she could muster. Maybe there was a perfect hidden tree house up here. She might be able to fix it up and present it instead of a model. That would blow her professors away! She realized she was being silly. She wasn’t even sure her professors would have any interest in a real tree house.

  Her heart started beating wildly as she hoisted herself up. She knelt on the platform, touching the wood around her to see if the base seemed solid enough to hold her. Steadying herself, she stood up, raising her eyes in anticipation.

  The place was a complete dump.

  She’d risked her life for this?

  She knew all along there was no way an evergreen—no matter how large—could sustain a tree house the scope of her model. But she had expected something—she hated to admit it—magical.

  She sighed and gingerly made her way around the platform. There was a rickety, small, lean-to shed made from old, misshapen boards. Sunlight passed through the shanty, throwing streaks of light through the shadows. The place was not rain- or windproof. No windows. There were boards missing both in the walls and floors. There was no safety railing. She shook her head. A twelve-year-old could have designed this place. It occurred to her that it might have been designed by a twelve-year-old, and perhaps she shouldn’t be so judgmental.

  There was a space between the tops of several commingling trees where she could look out and see all of Cobb. The sight was breathtaking. The Kentucky River wound lazily through the town. She could see Crabby’s patio and deck snug up against the riverbank, devoid of people and furniture. A reminder that nothing in life stays the same.

  She stayed away from the edge. While she realized the lack of a barrier was a safety hazard, she had to admit, it did give the place an expansiveness she knew her model lacked. She looked out over the town. The platform and little shanty certainly weren’t going to win any design or engineering awards, but the structure did give off a feeling a freedom she knew her own model lacked.

  Plexiglas?

  The idea of an invisible barrier had her itching to return to her model and take out the railing. She wanted to discuss this new idea with Bale. She knew he would love it. Every one of his tiny houses, built on wheels and ready to hit the road, had freedom as a starting point.

  A bird twittered, surprised to be making eye contact with a human on its own turf. She thought about Galileo and how much she’d love to bring him here—he’d blow this bird’s little mind.

  She could feel herself relaxing. The stress of losing one job and starting another, not having enough money to pay the rent and other bills (she realized she still didn’t even know what Quinn was going to pay her), and the ever-nagging sensation of not giving enough attention to her thesis seemed to flow out of her as she stared out over the town. Everything was silent, except for a soft whisper among the trees that they had company. She hated to admit it, but she could sit up here all day, just letting the forest surround and inspire her.

  The realization that Quinn wasn’t paying her to sit in a tree and soak up inspiration smacked her like a flyswatter. She had to get back to work. She looked at the wooden ladder she’d used to get up. It looked even scarier going down.

  Taking a deep breath, she backed down the ladder one rickety step at a time. She’d always been afraid of descending a ladder—something that used to make her brother, Curly, furious when they were kids. She would always get herself stuck up a tree or on the roof and he’d be sent to fetch her. When her foot reached for the missing step and Molly found herself pawing at thin air, she could see Curly’s annoyed face—and it made her laugh.

  The laughing stopped abruptly as she lost her footing and crashed the last four feet. Molly laid sprawled on the forest floor, wondering:

  If an idiot falls in the forest and no one hears her, did she really fall?

  She raised herself up, propping herself on her elbows to assess the damage. The ground was soft with pine needles. She appeared to be unharmed. Perhaps, at least metaphysically, she didn’t really fall.

  At least she didn’t have to cop to it!

  She looked around for landmarks, knowing she would want to come back and stare out at the view. She picked out two interlocking walnut trees to the east and three straight-as-sticks pine trees to the west as her markers and headed back to the more manicured—and less dangerous—rows of evergreens.

  She was walking among the stumps of several rows of harvested trees when Quinn appeared beside her.

  “How’s it going out here?” he asked.

  “I think seedlings could go here,” Moll
y said, trying not to feel guilty that she’d spent the last hour daydreaming. She indicated the area. “And I found a few other areas that look good.”

  “Good work,” Quinn said. “So…um…I was wondering…”

  “Yes?” Molly asked.

  Quinn graced her with one of his magnificent lopsided grins. Molly tried to keep breathing. Was he going to ask her on a date? She thought about misinterpreting Bale’s words, but maybe she had been on the right path after all.

  She replayed the morning in her mind. The flight in the helicopter was wonderful. Breakfast seemed to have gone well. Maybe she should invite him over to her place. She rejected that instantly. Galileo was sure to tell him he loved him.

  “I was wondering what you’re doing tomorrow?”

  He was asking her on a date!

  “No plans,” Molly said with a shrug.

  She wondered if she sounded pathetic, like she had no life. She tried again.

  “Nothing important,” she tried again, looking accusingly at the evergreen when she noticed a tiny splinter in her thumb.

  She stuck her thumb in her mouth, then yanked it out. She wouldn’t want Quinn to think she was trying to look seductive while on duty. Perhaps she should remind him she had substance.

  “Just working on my thesis,” she said, immediately regretting it. “Not that I can’t put that aside for a few hours.”

  Quinn looked at her, a confused look on his face.

  “I meant, what are you doing here tomorrow?”

  Chapter 8

  Bale and Thor walked through the Golden, Colorado, Tiny House Show, checking out the competition. Bale had to admit, his own Tiny Dreams houses held up pretty well. He waved to a silver-haired man in jeans and cowboy boots. He didn’t know the man, but most of the veteran builders recognized each other on sight, having spotted each other over the last few years at convention centers, stadium parking lots, and county fairgrounds. The man waved back and returned to attaching an outside storage unit to one of his own tiny houses.

  Bale swung himself into one of the four tinies he’d brought to the show. It was his steampunk model, inspired by his conversations with Molly about her tree house. He often told her their relationship was like two people working on a still life in an art class. They looked at the same object but saw different ways of capturing its essence. They bounced ideas off each other, taking their collective vision and applying it to their different worlds.

  He let out a deep sigh. If only Molly had some interest in seeing him outside of their imaginary art class. But he knew the signs—more specifically, he knew when there were no signs. Not that Molly had rejected him. But it was obvious her enthusiasm for him lay in their mutual interests rather than anything along romantic lines. All romantic roads apparently led to Quinn’s tree farm.

  His thoughts were interrupted when a young woman knocked on the door.

  “Hi,” Bale said, letting her in through the dark, distressed door with its signature handle shaped like a squid tentacle. The handle had been Molly’s design, but when she decided it would be too hard to make in miniature for her thesis model, she gave the idea to him.

  “It’s all about the sweat-to-glory ratio. If I ran with every idea that came into my head, I’d never get my project done. I’ve got to go with the big idea and leave the details until I get the actual tree house built,” she said. “As if that’s ever going to happen.”

  “It will happen,” Bale assured her. “If I can get tiny houses built, I know you’ll see your tree house realized.”

  He was relieved she didn’t ask how he knew that.

  But the curvy, tactile handle was always a big draw at the tiny house shows—as were the other ideas she’d given him, including fashioning large old keys into kitchen cabinet pulls and using copper plumbing pipes rich with a green patina to make shelf brackets.

  “I love your houses,” the woman said, her eyes gleaming with the possibilities of a whole new life. “They look like they’re out of fairy tales.”

  “Thank you,” Bale said.

  Whether they saw the concept of a tiny house as a way to be less burdened by debt or wanted to live in a fairy tale, he loved the different reactions people had to his creations.

  “Can I look around?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I’m Bale Barrett.”

  “Violet Green,” she said, shaking his hand.

  She was beautiful. He went through the search engine in his mind to see if he should say something about her violet eyes—was that why she was named Violet? He decided against it. Hadn’t every man on earth used that as an opening line? Should he try for “Violet” and “Green” both being colors? No…that was probably overdone as well. He settled on “Nice to meet you.”

  He looked at Thor, whose blank expression fairly shouted, “That’s the best you can do?”

  Violet’s brilliant eyes played over the house. She ran her hand over the kitchen countertop.

  “The workmanship in here is the best I’ve seen,” she said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m going to step outside. If you have any questions, let me know.”

  Did he see a shadow of disappointment on her face? Or was that wishful thinking? It didn’t matter. He was in a professional situation and would handle himself accordingly.

  When he first started showing his houses, as soon as a customer walked in, he felt as if he were taking up too much space. It was as if he were inflating as the prospective client toured the miniscule dwelling. Bale had learned that a tiny house only got tinier when two people who didn’t know each other occupied the space.

  He called Thor and the two of them headed outside, but not before Thor got his kiss from their latest visitor.

  “That’s how it’s done,” Thor’s stubby, wagging tail seemed to say as they clomped down the tiny house steps.

  Bale sat on the front step of the tiny house, wondering what Violet was thinking about all the details. He had learned to be patient. Molly had once said that just as every woman can’t wear the same hairstyle, not everybody was meant to live in a tiny house.

  Experience had taught him she was right. Even though it meant losing a sale, if he felt a person hadn’t thought through the immense decision of getting rid of almost all their possessions, Bale would counsel her (there were some “hims” and a few couples, but most of his customers were women) to take her time. His shop would always be in Cobb, Kentucky, and there was no rush. The last thing he wanted was for someone to wake up one day on the road in one of his lofts and say to herself, “What have I done?”

  “It’s bad for business and bad for my soul,” he’d told Molly.

  There is a beautiful woman yards away, possibly buying one of my houses…Why am I think about Molly? he asked himself.

  Violet popped her head out the tiny house door, smiling.

  “This is just fantastic,” she said. “I really feel at home in here.”

  Violet had obviously given a lot of thought to the possibility of living tiny. She stepped outside and sat on the front step next to Bale. She’d done her research and was asking all the right questions.

  How big a truck did she need to tow this particular tiny house?

  Did the tiny house have off-grid capabilities?

  Would the insulation withstand freezing temperatures?

  She told him she was a traveling nurse and ping-ponged around the country.

  “I’ve actually sold quite a few homes to traveling nurses,” Bale said.

  “I know,” Violet said. “You’ve got quite the reputation.”

  Bale looked at her in surprise.

  “As a great tiny house builder!” Violet laughed, not the least bit embarrassed. “Wow, I’m an idiot.”

  Bale looked to Thor—could he go anywhere with this?

  Thor sent a telepathic, unequivo
cal “No.”

  “How big—or small—a house are you thinking?” Bale asked.

  “Maybe two hundred fifty square feet max,” she said. “It’s only me, but I want to feel like I’m home. So I want a kitchen, a stackable washer-dryer, a decent bathroom, and room to move around.”

  “This place is a little bigger than that,” he said.

  “I know,” she said wistfully, glancing back at the house. “But it’s so damn cute.”

  “These houses are all prototypes,” he said. “We can work on a smaller one if you’d like.”

  “Really?” she said, her eyes lighting up. “I’d love that. Could you make it green on the outside?”

  He wondered if she was flirting with him.

  “I’m surprised you don’t want it painted violet,” he said, proud of his agility to think on the spot.

  “My truck is violet,” she said with a wink.

  Okay! In the world of tiny houses, this would definitely be considered flirting. Wasn’t it?

  Wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity to ask her out to dinner?

  But what was the point? If he couldn’t stop thinking about Molly, it wasn’t fair to anybody to have even the most innocent of dates.

  Besides, those dates rarely ended as innocently as either party had claimed.

  They exchanged business cards. In a world where she could have just looked him up online, it felt like an intimate gesture. He promised Violet that when and if she decided to buy one of his Tiny Dreams, he was easy to reach. She shook his hand and said she’d stay in touch.

  Bale sat staring out the window, absently rubbing the red patch of spiky fur between Thor’s ears. He’d just let a beautiful woman walk away—and for what? He knew he was being ridiculous. He was just torturing himself, thinking about taking a bolder step with Molly. If she somehow returned his feelings, his life would be complete. But he’d be making the biggest mistake of his life if he scared her away. He’d rather stay friends than lose any connection with her.

  He was only a few years older than Quinn, but he felt much more…